Until the Boiled Water Had Grown Cold
by rlu1
Summary: It was Christmas evening and Sherlock was alone in 221B Baker Street. John had felt no hesitation about leaving him all on his own since, as John had said time and time again, Sherlock scoffed at celebrations surrounding Christmas. But Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little bit differently this year. He would have liked to spend this Christmas with John. Johnlock one-shot.


_Hello everyone and happy holidays to those who celebrate! I have just finished the most intense semester of my life thus far (my first semester of a PhD program in English Literature, Book History, and Sexual Diversity Studies) and finally have some time to breathe and to pursue some non-course-related writing; I fully intend to work on some of my long, in-progress fic pieces during my short break, but was also inspired to write this simple little Christmas one-shot because I was feeling the holiday spirit and all that. ;)_

 _Oh yes, I thought you all might enjoy this tidbit: I was revising this little fic in a coffee shop and, perfectly enough, as soon as I sat down to work on it, "I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart" came on. Let's just say the song is perfect for those Johnlock feels. The lyrics are (as close as possible, but I am not sure this is 100% correct) as follows: "I let a song go out of my heart/It was the sweetest melody/I know I've lost Heaven/'Cause you were the song/Since you and I have drifted apart/Life doesn't mean a thing to me/Please come back, sweet music/I know I was wrong/Am I too late to make amends?/You know that we were/Meant to be more/Than just friends, just friends/I let a song go out of my heart/Believe me, darlin', when I say/I won't know sweet music/Until you return some day/Am I too late to make amends?/You know that we were/Meant to be more/Than just friends, just friends/I let a song go out of my heart/Believe me, darlin', when I say/I won't know sweet music/Until you return someday/I won't know sweet music/Until you return someday"_

 _Onto the fic!_

 _Disclaimer: I did not create nor do I own this world or its characters._

* * *

This Christmas had started out quite wonderfully. Even Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective (who was infamously known to act completely indifferent and sometimes even intolerable towards Christmas), had to admit that this was a lovely start to Christmas indeed.

His flatmate, one former army doctor John Watson, had risen early and in the brightest of spirits, singing all of the most cliché Christmas carols in a robust voice that couldn't help but warm one's heart and bring a smile of tenderness to one's face. The same Dr. Watson (who, might I add, is a very handsome chap) had entered the living room in a gorgeous deep red cable knit jumper and dark blue jeans (he made quite a stunning image, to be sure), had turned on the set of multi-coloured lights wrapped tight around the living room Christmas tree, had set to making a full and proper English breakfast for the detective and he, and had boiled a copious amount of hot water for tea. Then, the good doctor had built a nice, warm fire in the living room fireplace and, after Sherlock Holmes had stumbled in from a night at the morgue and had quickly changed into comfortable dressing gown and pyjamas (for it was raining something awful, you see, and he was damp to the bone and feeling quite out of sorts), he had found not only the perfect fire to sit next to in that favourite armchair of his in the living room, but he had also found a pretty little package wrapped with a bow in the seat of his armchair. The little package read: " _To Sherlock With Best Wishes for the Holidays and Always From John_ "

Sherlock hadn't intended to be excited about receiving a present from his flatmate – he really oughtn't to feel such eagerness, he thought, for he had been receiving Christmas and birthday gifts from John for a very long time now. But, truthfully, he was always excited by John's gifts. After all, nobody knew him better than John and, so, John consistently provided him with very fitting presents.

When Sherlock unwrapped the gift, he found the most beautiful pair of socks to add to his sock collection. This pair was a royal blue colour that matched brilliantly Sherlock's eyes, his skin tone, his scarf (have I mentioned that Sherlock Holmes is also incredibly attractive? Well, he is and these socks made him even more so – if such was possible). These socks were made out of thin but impenetrable wool, so very warm when Sherlock put his large hands into them to stretch them out. As he flipped them over in his hands, he noticed they were sock slippers. They had little pads at the bottom to prevent one from slipping on hardwood floors, and a fine layer of cushion running along the bottom for added comfort.

When John walked into the living room with a tray full of hot cups of tea and warm plates of food to find Sherlock admiring the socks, he smiled and said to the detective, "I know they aren't much. But you're always complaining of how cold the flat is, so I thought these would help keep you warm. They're certainly warmer than those cotton socks you insist on wearing."

Sherlock had raised his head in acknowledgement.

"And they're skid proof, so you…uh, well, you can jump and spin and do whatever it is that Sherlock Holmes does without, you know, fear of falling and all that," John had continued.

"Mmm," Sherlock muttered in way of response, a small smile across his plump, pink lips. "I have a present for you too."

John feigned a shocked expression – I say feigned, because Sherlock had been giving John Christmas and birthday presents for years now and so, of course, John was not surprised at this announcement. Not surprised in the slightest.

"Really, Scrooge?" the good doctor teased, his eyes creasing at the corners in mirth.

Sherlock made a deep rumbling laugh in the back of his throat before producing a small package from the satin pocket of his royal blue dressing gown.

When John had set their breakfast tray down on the nearby coffee table, had sat down in his own faithful living room armchair by the fire (and directly next to Sherlock's), and had unwrapped the package, he found a small, thick, leather-bound tome. He cocked an eyebrow at his flatmate, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Open it," the detective prodded the doctor.

John placed the book on his lap and opened the leather cover with reverence, his breath held in anticipation. The title page read: _"The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson_ as chronicled by Dr. John H. Watson and edited by W. Sherlock S. Holmes"

"Sher – Sherlock, what is this?" John asked, breathless, his eyes glued to the item in his lap, his fingers flipping through each page carefully.

"Your blog posts. I edited them a bit, adding in essential details about my process of analysis or about clues and evidence you had missed and fixing minor grammatical errors – "

"Of course you did," John snorted light-heartedly. "Well, that's…that's very nice. Really. Thank you."

Sherlock's smile was soft, his eyes dancing bright against the firelight. John was a man who, like himself, tried so very hard to conceal emotion. But, as Sherlock observed his flatmate in the armchair next to him, he knew that the doctor very much appreciated the book. He could tell John was touched that he had taken the time and effort to edit and bind John's writings. And he also knew that, despite his own inability to articulate feelings properly in words, John was fully aware that he was incredibly pleased with his new wool socks.

They ate breakfast in silence, their forks clinking amiably against their plates, the soft sound of rainfall and holiday traffic ringing around the edges of the flat.

Sherlock stared into the waltzing orange-red flames of the fire as he ate, but he could feel his flatmate's intent gaze resting on his pale, chiselled face. Finally, Sherlock looked over to meet John's gaze. John continued to stare, unashamed, munching on a piece of bacon as he said, his mouth full, "That robe looks nice on you."

Well, Sherlock Holmes was hardly ever taken aback but truly he had not expected to hear that, and he coughed slightly on his food.

As soon as John said the words, the poor doctor looked away and cleared his throat, taking a particularly large bite of bacon. "The colour, I mean," he added, mouth full of the meat.

Sherlock looked away too, scratching at his neck. He suddenly felt very warm. Too warm. The rain outside fell harder now.

"So, any plans for today?" John asked after a couple of slightly uncomfortable moments.

Sherlock grunted. "How many years have we lived together, and yet you still ask that question."

"I didn't think you had plans," John replied sternly, finishing his plate of food and standing up abruptly. "Right, best be off then."

Sherlock sat up quite straight at those words. It was the second time in a matter of minutes that he had been taken aback. "Where are you going?"

"Date. I'm...uh...well, I'm spending Christmas with my girlfriend."

Sherlock should have known, should have observed – here was John looking dapper in such a fine jumper – Sherlock had been foolish to assume that John's attire was merely in honour of the Christmas holiday. "Ah. That sounds…boring…Is it Sarah?...no…Vanessa?...no…Katherine – "

"Yeah, well, I didn't tell you her name because I knew you'd never remember it. Anyway, you don't know her, you've never met her, and therefore you can't judge her or assume that she's boring," John said matter-of-factly, taking his dirty dishes into the kitchen.

"I'm sure she _is_ boring," Sherlock said very quietly under his breath so that John wouldn't hear.

Five minutes later, John had cleaned his dishes, had wrapped himself in his faithful green winter coat, and had rushed out the door whistling.

All of these events happened, of course, on Christmas morning. Now it was Christmas evening and Sherlock was standing in front of the dying embers of the fireplace in the living room of 221B Baker Street. He was alone in the flat.

Sherlock knew that John had felt no hesitation about leaving him all on his own since, as John had said time and time again (and as Sherlock had failed to deny time and time again), Sherlock scoffed at any kind of festivities and sentimental feelings of celebration surrounding Christmas. But the truth of the matter – if Sherlock were to be totally honest with John and with himself – was that Sherlock _used_ to scoff at any kind of festivities and sentimental feelings of celebration surrounding Christmas.

Christmas was an utterly embarrassing holiday, it was true – embarrassing because it highlighted the idiocy of humankind. Think about it! Children were told that reindeers could fly and that some old man never died; even more disturbing, children were told that this same old man constantly watched them when they were sleeping and when they were awake and such behaviour was accepted as perfectly normal for an old man (when, in truth, such behaviour sounded like that of a pedophile and stalker, if you asked Sherlock). Children were told that, once a year, this old man travelled through the air to leave toys at every single home in the entire world within a matter of hours - that defied science. And, what's more, Christmas celebrated the birth of a fictional entity. If people would just use their brains and a little bit of logic, Sherlock thought, they would realize that there was no higher being. There was no heaven. None of it was rational. With all the evidence laid out in front of them, people proved themselves to be pure idiots if they chose to celebrate such a holiday.

So, considering this, perhaps you can understand why Sherlock _used_ to scoff at Christmas. But Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little bit differently this year. He would have liked to spend this Christmas with John – not with anyone else mind you; it would be truly tedious to have to entertain people like Lestrade or Molly as he had had to that one year when John had insisted they have a Christmas party at 221B.

But, if Sherlock were to be totally honest with John and with himself, he would very much like to spend this Christmas with John. Nothing big. Just to spend the evening in the flat would be lovely. To spend the evening in the flat in their respective armchairs with their toes out towards the fireplace and a warm fire crackling. Some cliché holiday film playing on the telly as they admired the Christmas tree that John had insisted they put up and decorate together (and, as much as Sherlock had complained during their decorating, he had secretly greatly enjoyed it because John had looked so pleased and joyful doing it). Sherlock would ask John to make some of that special mulled wine that he was so good at making and they would share some mugs together until they were red-faced and slightly too warm and bubbly and giddy. And, when they were red-faced and slightly too warm and bubbly and giddy, maybe they could leave their chairs and sit together on the floor, cross-legged, their knees just touching. Maybe they could move towards one another and invade one another's space just a little too much, and maybe Sherlock's head could drop onto John's shoulder just for a moment, and he could breathe John's woollen jumper English breakfast tea smell in and maybe, just maybe, in that moment, John would forget about his girlfriend and think only of Sherlock and…

Sherlock blinked and gasped for breath and moved away from the fireplace towards the cool air of the kitchen.

Ridiculous, ridiculous, goodness he was being utterly ridiculous.

His cell phone rang from the pocket of his dressing gown and, for a moment, he was ashamed to admit that his heart flip-flopped in his chest when he thought that perhaps it was John calling. But it wasn't – of course it wasn't.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" the detective asked through gritted teeth.

"Happy Christmas to you too, little brother."

"You've never wished me a Happy Christmas in your life," Sherlock spat.

"I wanted to check in and see how you are doing," Mycroft said, sounding slightly weary and, to Sherlock's annoyance, slightly concerned.

"Why in the world would you do that?" Sherlock demanded, brow furrowing.

"I know that Dr. Watson is on a date with his girlfriend– "

"I'm _fine_ , Mycroft, why wouldn't I be fine?!" Sherlock frowned, his voice practically a predatory growl.

You could hear Mycroft roll his eyes through the phone and suppress a groan. "Well, little brother, I am glad to hear that you are in the Christmas spirit."

Sherlock was silent, pouting.

"I can come round the flat if you would like some company until the good doctor comes home," Mycroft offered after the silence had become uncomfortable.

Sherlock sniffed, his lower lip jutting out and his fingers practically crushing the cell phone against his ear. "Um….let's see…nope. Good-bye," and he hung up and tossed the phone onto his armchair by the fireplace before stalking back into the kitchen and slumping down in one of the hard wooden chairs propped up against the kitchen table (which looked more like a science laboratory than a kitchen table).

He picked up a petri dish with the intention of conducting an experiment that would take his mind off of his annoying thoughts when his cell phone rang again. With a grumble and a swift movement of long thin limbs and silk robe, Sherlock got up to retrieve it.

"What?" he barked.

This time it was Mrs. Hudson, calling from her holiday in Bath.

"Sherlock, dear, Happy Christmas!" Her voice rang out, joyful, like jangling bells. She was unperturbed by Sherlock's rude behaviour.

He sighed. "Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson."

"May I speak to John, please, dear? I want to wish him a Happy Christmas as well."

"He is not home at the moment, but I will pass your salutations on to him if I remember to, now if you'll excuse me, I was about to conduct an experiment – "

"John's not home? Are you alone, Sherlock, dear? On Christmas?"

Sherlock made a clicking noise in the back of his throat.

"Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. I've left the number you can reach me at on your mantelpiece for you," Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock was frustrated at the hint of sadness and worry that had now entered her voice.

"Yes, thank you, goodbye," he muttered and once again threw the phone onto his armchair by the fireside.

Sherlock ran his long fingers through the dark brunette curls atop his head. He drummed those same fingers against his thighs. He gritted his teeth. He stormed back into the kitchen. He tossed something onto a Petri dish – he didn't know nor much less care at this point what it was – and shoved it under his microscope. He gritted his teeth and groaned and ran his long fingers through his curls of hair again. He prodded his fingers against the side of his skull and groaned some more.

A series of images played in his head that he needed desperately to get out but that he just couldn't seem to delete. John kissing, John groping, John crawling into bed with…well, Sherlock didn't know what John's current girlfriend looked like, but it didn't matter. The very idea of John doing any of these things with anyone but…with anyone but Sherlock…oh goodness…that was just too much for Sherlock to bear…and the very fact that that was too much for Sherlock to bear frustrated and agonized Sherlock to no end.

How long had he harboured such feelings for John? When had he allowed such feelings to invade his mind? How could he have allowed such an invasion to happen?

Sherlock had never had a significant other before – he had done simple things like kiss before, yes, but always to manipulate for the purposes of a case. Never had he felt desire for another human being. Not until John. He was sure he never would feel desire for anyone except for John. John alone. And for John, oh did he feel such desire.

He desperately needed, adored, loved John Watson and, though he hadn't always admitted it to himself, he had always needed, adored, and loved John Watson. From the very moment that the good doctor entered his life. But John was spending a romantic Christmas with someone who wasn't Sherlock and maybe, just maybe, that would mean that John would start spending a significantly shorter amount of time at Baker Street and maybe, just maybe, sometime soon, John would move out completely and…

Sherlock was collapsed in a chair at the kitchen table with his head in his hands now and a silent sob was shuddering through his muscles and bones, sending his curls bouncing and his toes quivering. He shoved a fist into his mouth to try to stop the choking gurgle that was threatening to burst forth from the back of his throat. His shoulders shuddered and shuddered and shuddered…

But then…he hadn't even registered that the front door had been unlocked, had opened, had closed…he hadn't even registered the wet footsteps against the hard floor…but then he felt strong hands (cold with winter air, even through the layers of his dressing gown and t-shirt) grasp his shoulders and stop the shuddering. And then there was warm air and a comforting voice in his ear. "Sherlock…Sherlock, what's wrong?" and those same strong hands were turning Sherlock around and lifting his face up and suddenly the detective was blinking through his tears into the concerned, wonderful, beautiful face of Dr. John Watson, who was crouching in front of the curly-haired man. A flood of joy and relief rushed through Sherlock's every vein and he heard himself whispering out, "John."

"I'm here," John said, his voice steady and firm and sure, just like Sherlock loved. Sherlock nodded and swallowed and, before he even knew what he was doing, he had burrowed his face into the chest of John's winter coat, a fresh wave of tears tumbling from his eyes and sending his body shuddering. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he wheezed into the doctor's chest.

"It's okay, Sherlock, it's okay, I'm here," John whispered, running his hands soothingly up and down Sherlock's back. "Why are you sorry, hmm?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip to stop himself from crying like a child.

Finally, he felt like he was once again in control of himself and he pulled away from John, standing up quickly and moving towards the stove. He could feel John watching him carefully and so he went about busying himself. He grabbed the kettle from off the stovetop and proceeded to fill it with water. "Tea?" he asked, his head down as he refused to make eye contact with his flatmate.

"Sherlock – "

"How was your date? You're home earlier than I'd anticipated," Sherlock said, looking quickly at the kitchen clock as he placed the now-full kettle back on the stove to boil.

"Sherlock – "

Sherlock turned his back completely on John as he began searching the cupboards for every tin of tea he could find – and they had many, many tins of tea. He heard John stand up, discard of his winter coat, and move forwards until the good doctor was so close that his breath was hot against Sherlock's robe.

"Sherlock – "

Sherlock shut his eyes, his arms dropping limply to his side. "Yes, John?"

"What's wrong? Why are you sorry?"

Sherlock was very still. "I'm sorry for my outburst of emotion. It was uncalled for. I don't know what came over me, but I assure you that I am fine now." He spoke to the wall in a monotone voice.

The detective was very relieved when his flatmate stopped prodding him with questions. "The date was fine – "

"Ah. Good," Sherlock responded, now continuing once again to busy himself with his task of pulling down tins of every variety of tea from the cupboard.

" – until I broke up with her over dessert," John added.

"Oh." Sherlock swallowed hard. At first, he was slightly perplexed at this news – for, John was particularly sentimental and Christmas seemed like a strange choice of day for a breakup. But, almost instantaneously, he felt quite pleased at this information. He knew that feeling quite pleased at this news was a bit not good, so he sucked on his cheeks to prevent himself from smiling. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry about that. It's fine, actually," John said, and he actually did sound quite fine. "Here, let me help you," the doctor added as Sherlock practically broke their fine china cups pulling them down from the highest cupboard. "Why do we need to use fine china cups for tea? What's the occasion? Unless you've put something toxic in our regular mugs?"

Sherlock practically huffed and rolled his eyes as if the question was utterly asinine. "Honestly, John, I don't put toxins in everything we own, you know…I…well, I just thought it would be fitting to use our nice cups tonight because it's Christmas."

"I thought you didn't care about Christmas. Useless sentiment and all that," John said.

"Quite right. You like Christmas, though."

"Yes, I do. My favourite holiday. The fine china would be very nice. Very nice indeed. That's …well, that's thoughtful of you."

"I can be thoughtful when I want to be," Sherlock said.

"Yes, you can be," John agreed. For some reason, Sherlock's heart suddenly felt hot.

As the doctor reached forward to take one of the cups balancing precariously in Sherlock's hands, his fingers laced over Sherlock's own and Sherlock found himself trembling at the contact. The poor detective practically lost grip of the cup's handle before John could properly grab hold of it.

"Oops," John said and, when Sherlock looked down at the doctor, he saw a smile playing across the doctor's face. But then John frowned slightly – for Sherlock had turned away again, blushing uncontrollably. The detective could feel his face burning. Could feel his neck burning too. Sherlock hardly ever blushed, so why in the world did he have to blush now? How utterly humiliating!

"Sherlock, are you...you're, uh…you're blushing," John said. His mouth had dropped open ever so slightly.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He busied his body and his mind with preparing the tea, grabbing milk from the fridge, sugar from the cupboard, spoons from the drawer. He could feel John watching him.

"Sherlock?" John cleared his throat, grimaced, shook his head slightly, clearly agitated. "You know…during my date…I couldn't stop thinking about how I didn't want you to be alone during Christmas…I kept wanting to hurry the date along, so I could get back home to you – "

"I don't mind being alone, John," Sherlock interrupted, grabbing at the now boiled kettle and practically sloshing red hot water all over himself.

"Geezus, be careful with that kettle, you silly git…now listen…I may not have the brain or the sense that you do…but…if you didn't mind being alone, then why were you crying just now?"

The detective could feel the doctor invading his space again, too close to him, but still he could not, _would not_ , turn around. He heard John take a deep breath, heard John mutter something indiscernible, heard John hesitate.

"Sherlock…I've…I've seen the way you've watched me lately, how you stare when you think I'm not looking."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, a stone forming in his throat so that he could hardly stutter out, "I…I don't know what you're talking about. You're the one whose been staring at me!"

At first there was painful silence. Then, "Caught me. I won't deny that. I suppose we've both been staring at each other, then," John said, his voice so very quiet and so very deep.

And then Sherlock felt John's warm palms on the sides of his hips, squeezing his hip bones gently, ever so gently. Sherlock's stomach jumped up into his throat. He was shocked. He was thrilled. He simply couldn't speak. He had to put the kettle down. He had to grip the countertop.

John's fingers trailed up the sides of Sherlock's waist and moved forward to rest gently, ever so gently, on the detective's chest, where John proceeded to rub soothing circles that grazed overtop the detective's nipples teasingly. Sherlock let out a strangled breath and dropped his head back, his curls bouncing, his plump, pink mouth dropping open. He tried desperately to reel his emotions in and to regain a sense of control. Christ, John was only touching his chest – through fabric, at that! It should not be so difficult for him to gain control when John was merely touching his chest through the fabric of a t-shirt.

Finally, he was able to utter a simple, "John." He was ashamed that his normally extensive vocabulary seemed only to consist of one word now. He was even more ashamed to hear that his voice came out high and tense.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John urged, the soothing circles that he was making along Sherlock's chest becoming stronger. Gentle but strong.

Sherlock tried to stop himself from arching into John's hands, but he simply couldn't help himself. He bit back a groan.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John urged yet again.

When Sherlock was silent, John grasped him by the waist and turned him around with a thud, pressing the detective's lower back up against the cupboard. Sherlock cried out in surprise. With John's intense gaze piercing into him, he had no choice but to look down at his flatmate. John's eyes were shining bright, open wide and excited, searching Sherlock's face. John's mouth was in a thin line. Tension filled the doctor's jaw. Sherlock could practically see John's heart thumping against his chest.

Something strange but wonderful was happening in Sherlock's stomach. There was a tightening feeling. Then a soaring butterfly feeling.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked and, though his voice sounded firm and confident, his eyes showed signs of hesitance and unease and, above all else, hope.

Sherlock saw that hesitance and unease and, above all else, hope and his heart sped up; the tightening feeling and the soaring butterfly feeling intensified. And suddenly, Sherlock didn't know why he had been holding back for so, so long, he was so filled with love and affection and overwhelming need for John and, before he could think about what he was doing, he was pulling John into an embrace, pulling him closer and closer into his chest until he thought he might suffocate from trying so desperately to get near John, to have John near to him. He hugged and hugged and hugged John, burying his nose in John's neck and planting one small kiss on John's neck and breathing and breathing in John's deep red jumper and those John Watson black tea scents and – oh wonderful day – John was hugging him back so tight and hard, his hands up in Sherlock's curls, running through them softly, affectionately, and then running down Sherlock's neck, and then down his spine, and then giving Sherlock's rump light affectionate pats – oh goodness – Sherlock's knees buckled and gave way.

"John," he whispered, and his voice sounded heavy and thick, as if he was holding back another sob. "I missed you so much today, I wanted to spend Christmas with you so badly but I just couldn't say so…oh John – " and a few tears tumbled down his beautifully chiselled cheeks.

John gently caressed Sherlock's jaw and lifted it so that he could look into Sherlock's tear-stained face. His hands came to rest on Sherlock's wet cheeks, and the good doctor wiped away all of those tears with the most tender of touches, before pulling Sherlock's poor sweet face down to his. "You know why I broke up with her over dessert, Sherlock? Because there's somebody else who has my heart and I missed him something awful today." John Watson smiled a broad, wide smile before planting a warm kiss against Sherlock's pink, plump lips.

"Somebody else?" Sherlock said as they pulled away, and he was breathless, gulping for air and it was all too much for him to process and oh geez did he want desperately to kiss John's lips again and what was John implying with all of this? He pouted and tried to recapture John's lips in his.

John giggled against Sherlock's mouth. "It's you, Sherlock. It's always been you. Ever since the day I met you. I may not have admitted it to myself at first, but it's always been you," he murmured, and then he was back to kissing Sherlock's pretty lips tenderly, passionately, lovingly.

In between kisses, Sherlock was gasping, "John – I want you – want you always – to be mine – and I'm – I'm so sorry – so sorry – that I didn't – didn't – say anything – sooner – John – I've been – a fool – I am – an idiot – this feels – marvellous."

"Shhh," John whispered against the detective's lips, his fingers running through Sherlock's soft curls, down Sherlock's chiselled cheeks, down Sherlock's long pale neck.

They kissed and kissed until the boiled water had grown cold and Sherlock's mouth was numb from so much loving. And when they were done kissing (for the time being, that is), they laughed and laughed, their foreheads pressed against one another, their fingers intertwining.

John looked down at his weathered hands locked lovingly in Sherlock's long, pale ones and he squeezed those long, pale hands, lifted them to his lips, kissed every single one of Sherlock's fingers. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock beamed at the doctor from behind his thick brunette lashes. "Happy Christmas, John. I can't wait to spend all the rest of my Christmases with you."


End file.
